


Madam Malkin Calls It a Day

by tetley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, F/F, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetley/pseuds/tetley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions is closed, but Madam has one more thing to do before she can call it a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madam Malkin Calls It a Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was my gift for Lash LaRue, written for the 2011 edition of HP Football Bets. The Real Snape was my wonderful beta.

**  
Madam Malkin Calls It A Day   
**

**~~1992~~**

Dressmaker Madam Malkin looked at her clock.

With gentle movements practised countless times over the years, she picked up the parts of a half-finished corset, folded them into a neat packet, and carefully wrapped them in white, rustling paper. It wouldn't do to spoil the expensive brocade; although her cleaning charms were legendary, she tried to avoid having to use them wherever possible. It kept one disciplined, and no garment liked too much cleaning, however magical.

Gently, she laid the pieces into a large, oaken chest. Her corset chest: drawers deep enough to accommodate the dozens of whalebones laced into brocade, cotton, sometimes leather, and wide enough to keep the parts separate so the laces and hooks didn't become entangled. There was a drawer for white, one for black, one for reddish tones, and one for bluish ones.

And all of them were always full. Madam Malkin, after all, had a reputation.

After a satisfied look around her shop, she turned the sign on the front door to "closed", set the password charm, and left the room through the door to her private quarters.

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was closed for the day.

Yet Madam Malkin's day wasn't quite over. She passed by the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea – nothing but water in the shop; she was strict about that – and grabbed an apple from the buffet. Not for dietary purposes; Madam Malkin liked her ample shape. She enjoyed having a body that required space, never could understand how a woman would want to shrink herself to near-invisibility. But it was all a matter of the right balance, she thought as she took a bite of the Granny Smith. Every indulgence was more fun with bit of restraint; every sweetness so much sweeter after a something a little astringent.

Nobody knew better than she.

She reached the end of the narrow corridor that wound itself around her shop and opened a small door. This was her _other_ office. It had taken her years of hard work to put it together, and it made her proud.

At first glance, Madam Malkin's other office looked very much like a bedroom. There was a large four-poster by the wall, with wrought-iron posts that could change colour from dark grey to shimmering silver, and the hardest mattress that galleons could buy. Its canopy and sheets were midnight blue today, heavy silk, as per order. There were two nightstands with drawers, filled with different delights each time, and a chaiselongue, illuminated by the dim light of an art nouveau lamp.

Nobody who entered this room for the first time would suppose what appeared when just a few, select panels were removed from the ceiling or floor, or from the wall opposite the heavily-curtained windows. For it was only upon invitation, and only when she so decided, that Madam Malkin revealed the secrets of her other office. And she would reveal only as many as she chose. The steel rings that protruded from the walls, perhaps. The St. Andrew's Cross, or the chains she could make tumble down from the ceiling, to suspend a swing of leather or fabric, or simply the limbs of someone who would thank her for it.

She opened a door by the bed and peered into the antechamber that connected this room with the shop in front. A flick of her wand lit a torch on the wall, a safety spell prevented fire hazards as she left it to burn there alone. The wardrobe was well-stocked, and the strawberries were fresh. No champagne, as requested, just cold sparkling water in a slender bottle.

Yes, this would do.

Already she heard the footsteps in the shop, quick and heavy ones, and the password charm being muttered as the glass door fell shut. Madam Malkin smiled to herself as she withdrew from the antechamber.

Seemed like only yesterday that aspiring Hit Witch Amelia Bones first entered this room, twelve years ago.

 

 **~~1980~~**

Amelia ran a hand through her dirty-blond hair and looked at the grubby piece of cardboard in her hand. She'd learned its content by heart long ago; the word pencilled on it really wasn't all that long.

"Don't lose it," he'd growled at her, "she'll have my sorry excuse for an arse if it ends up in the wrong hands."

What _had_ she been thinking?

She was sitting outside Florean Fortescue's ice-cream parlour, black coffee in front of her, cigarette in hand, and waited.

Diagon Alley was busy at this hour. Too busy for her taste, entirely too busy for what she had in mind.

"Afternoon, Officer Bones," she heard more than once. Being known around here came with the job. And there was a "hello, Amelia," from Andromeda, her clumsy though undeniably amusing brat in tow, one from Alice, and several from various faces she couldn't put a name to and didn't really mind, half of the time. It was a small world, the wizarding one.

Which was actually part of her problem.

Small worlds weren't practical when one had rare desires. And hers were rare, much too rare for a population no bigger than that of a small town, with the corresponding mentality.

It was hard to find a lover in such a world when one was a witch who liked witches. Witches who, ideally, had a place of their own, flexible working hours, an interest in law and abiding by the same, and, as an added bonus, perhaps a bit of padding and long hair. True, she'd been lucky on occasions, lucky enough to find partners who fulfilled at least some of those criteria. And, to be fair, it had always been sort of nice with them, in a not-being-alone kind of way. The kind that didn't sweep you off your feet but provided you with dinner conversation, a plan for Christmas and the holidays, and a level of sexual satisfaction that surely shouldn't give rise to complaints, comparatively speaking.

Yet there was always one thing that effectively brought an end to the various relationships of Amelia Bones, if her work schedule didn't do so first. And that was when, after long months of thinking and dropping hints, she finally dared speak of her _other_ desires. The ones that were even rarer than rare.

That had been the last she saw of Alberta, and the last she saw of Jill. Alberta had left her on the spot, with a brief, "You're sick!" as her farewell. Jill's verdict was longer, something to do with playing the game of patriarchy, and a slap in the face of all those who fought domestic violence and the degradation of women and stuff. The tirade went on for so long that Amelia didn't bother to point out where she saw the flaw in the logic.

She’d simply put her shirt back on, buttoned it neatly, grabbed her coat, and left.

She knew that she could try the Muggle world. With a population of millions, Muggle Britain _must_ boast a few women like her. But what would fleeing to the Muggle world be other than trading the denial of one aspect of herself for that of another? No. If she did this, she'd do it being _all_ of herself. The Islington resident who could do magic. The lover who took emergency calls in plain foreplay. The law enforcer who, very occasionally, would like to hear the sound of a pair of handcuffs clicking around her own wrists.

The cigarette was finished, and Amelia pondered lighting another one. She picked up the piece of parchment and twirled it in her hand. Pure coincidence was how she'd got it. Laughable, really, she thought as the flame flared up from her lighter. A round of drinks, or three, with her favourite colleague, to unwind after yet another stressful day at work. A joke about his missing arse cheek, and one thing leading to another, culminating in his playful threat of a whipping in Interrogation Cell Seven. And then, her guards lowered by two and a half pints and Alastor’s general lewdness, her question: "Got Polyjuice?"

Alastor Moody wasn't easily fooled. He knew seriousness behind a joke when he heard it. He also knew what their daily lives had turned into of late. Being in charge each day, pretending they had everything under control while they fought a losing battle. Watching their backs with each step because if they made a wrong move, they might die; if they hesitated, a colleague might die; if they took a wrong turn, a whole family might die. And when they were done watching their backs on their job, they proceeded to watch them after hours, cutting down on time with friends and family, not even trying to find lovers, for fear of exposing them to the ever-growing ranks of Death Eaters.

And so Alastor Moody had asked a few questions, given a few grunts, and scribbled a simple word on a soggy coaster.

"There. Doesn't take everyone, but she's not opposed to women. Known her since we were toddlers; she's a trustworthy one. Use it or not, but don't lose it."

Diagon Alley was emptying, and the handwriting on the coaster was fading fast. Another two hours, and the charmed code word would be gone from the cardboard, Vanished from her brain. Now or never.

So now it would be.

Amelia Bones stubbed out the half-finished cigarette, pushed herself up from the metal chair, and crossed the street to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

~~~

A bell rung as Amelia entered the shop. The sound of the establishment where quality merchandise was on offer, she thought as she closed the door behind herself. A spanking and two drams of insult, please. No need to wrap them, I'll have them right here.

Madam Malkin was sitting at a table by the window, transferring some pattern on dark green fabric. She was clad in a free-flowing, white linen robe, as always, and a lock of blond, wavy hair, laced with a hint of beginning grey, had sprung free from the loose bun that she’d pinned up in her neck with her wand.

She hadn't looked up yet; she never did right away. Whether she hated to be interrupted or just didn't want to impose, Amelia never knew.

The summer collection still seemed to be going strong. Baby blue, cherry red, lemon yellow. Subtle wasn't the flavour of the year. To the left there were the usual four racks of school robes, like every July and August. And behind those, much to the dismay of the more conservative parent, were the displays of Madam Malkin's specialties.

She had one of those, Amelia. In black. Short waist, everything else looked ridiculous on someone her size. Tight all the way up, no cups. She didn't have much opportunity to wear it in public, for corsets were neither practical in combat nor likely to win her points on the rare nights out with her politically-minded friends. But she loved the feeling of whalebones against her ribcage, the slight shortness of breath they imparted, and, just for the hour or two that she could stand the tightness, hardly a trace of the two heavy melons on her front.

She'd always wanted a burgundy one. Perhaps she'd just forget about this spanking thing and ...

"May I help you, Madam Bones?"

Madam Malkin had put away her tracing wheel and looked at her over the top of a pair of green-rimmed reading spectacles.

"Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Yes."

Madam Malkin had circled her cutting table. She took off her specs and cocked her head: "I'm listening."

Amelia opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"I see," Madam said and folded up her glasses.

She flicked her wand at the sign on the door, and a bolt slid into its holder.

"Come."

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was closed for the day.

~~~//~~~

Madam Malkin guided Amelia into the antechamber between her shop and The Room, as she called it in front of clients. She lit the torches on the walls and the candles on the table, and bade Amelia sit in one of two armchairs by a low table.

She had no M.O. for first talks. Every client was different, everyone who came to her had wishes and experiences, and so she took each as he or she came. This one, for instance, wasn't one for champagne. She was one for a clear head and some sober talk.

A blue bottle soared through the air, followed by two crystal tumblers. Madam Malkin made the stopper pop out of the bottle with a wave of her hand and poured two glasses of sparkling water. "Have you ever done this before?"

Madam Malkin knew this way of shaking one's head. _Surely a self-tying charm and a charmed pancake turner won't count, and even if they do, I'll be damned to admit that_ , it said.

"No _Incarcerous_? No bewitched everyday items?" she asked, eyebrows raised. "You're a Hit Witch, I take it you don't need a wand for that?"

There was a laugh. " _Touché_ ," Amelia admitted, and, "See?" Madam Malkin said with a smile.

"So, tell me," she continued. "What brings a young woman like you to me?"

Amelia twirled the water glass and watched a few tiny bubbles rise from the bottom until they popped with a faint sizzle.

"Balance, I suppose," she said at last, and there was another pause before she continued. "Yes, balance. Like point and counterpoint. Tension and relief. Sometimes I feel that the greater the one, the more it takes to provide the other."

Madam Malkin nodded. It fit. She'd had several requests like that of late, mostly from Aurors and family fathers, and one mother, too. Oh, not all were granted; of course. She didn't take everyone or do everything and didn't mince her words when she sent someone away. This one, however …

"Very well," she said and set down her glass. "I'll explain you the rules. Rule number one, forget everything you've heard about personal services similar or not similar to mine. I make my own rules. I will do what you like, as long I like it, too. I may choose to touch you if I please, but I also may not. You may come in my presence, and I daresay you will, but we two aren't about sex. Is that clear?"

The curt nod Amelia gave made Madam Malkin smile. Now, here was one who was obviously used to receiving instructions.

"About the business side of it, my hourly rates are twice those for tailoring. I'm not in it for big money. You have as long as it takes; I only make one appointment per day. After we're done, I will withdraw. You may stay on as long as you want and leave at your own leisure. And we settle the accounts a few days later in my shop. My clients don't run away."

Amelia smiled.

"And you'll get a receipt over alteration work," Madam Malkin added with a wink. "Just thought I'd let you know that I do all of this properly, taxes and all."

"Law Enforcement Officer Bones is glad to hear it," Amelia retorted with a playful nod. "Thank you," she added.

"Oh, I _like_ the sound of that," Madam Malkin said. "Say it again for me?"

"Thank you?"

"Thank you who?

"Thank you, Ma'am?"

"Madam, it'll be," corrected Madam Malkin. "Thank you, Madam."

"Thank you, Madam," Amelia repeated, and a dimple appeared on her cheek.

"Very nice," Madam Malkin concluded. "I hope to be hearing this from you often." She rose from the armchair and held out her hand. "Have you brought some time?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Time," she repeated. "I could sit here explaining all afternoon, and I could show you a few things."

Madam Malkin saw a tiny Adam's apple go up and sink back. "Yes, Madam," was the answer.

"That's a good girl."

 

 **~~1992~~**

Madam Malkin smoothed a few creases out of the blue silk on the bed and put a mild warming charm on the lubricant dispenser on the nightstand. She _had_ been a good girl, her Amelia. And a good woman, and a good boy, depending on the day.

She had also been a spectacularly fast learner.

Madam Malkin remembered it clearly. The hand in hers as she’d led her new charge to the four-poster with its black satin sheets and left her there as she went out to change into her work outfit. The widening eyes as she came back in, in a midnight-blue corset of shimmering brocade and a floor-length silk skirt, hair pinned up loosely to let the odd curl soften her cheekbones and severely-plucked eyebrows. The nods at the explanation that they'd start lightly, with velvet ribbons, and perhaps a little more, depending how things went. It was what she always did with new clients. Roleplay, that was for later. Scenarios, safewords, swings, all that was on offer when the client was ready, and she offered it willingly. But on the evenings of initiation, it was velvet ties or silver cuffs, praise for being good or just a little admonition, and the promise that every 'no' would be honoured.

And Amelia had responded to each explanation with the curt, formal nods of a dutiful Hit Witch.

Dutiful and responsive she’d always remained. Formal, not so much.

 

 **~~1980~~**

"Undress," Madam Malkin whispered, and hid a smile as she beheld a pair of plain, white briefs. Clearly Madam Bones hadn't expected same-day treatment. There was a fleeting impulse to make her take them off, wrap the small, flat buttocks in latex shorts or a leather skirt, or leave them altogether naked. But no. The sight of the tight sports bra and the sensible underpants was a treat in its own right. It would do very nicely.

"On your stomach," she ordered softly.

She took four ribbons from one of the nightstands. Silver-grey, a nice shade to go with the black of the sheets and the pristine white of the cotton. Gently, she took Amelia's left arm. With movements perfected over the years, she twisted the ribbon into a sling and slid it over the wrist. There was a tiny jerk in the spine as she pulled it tight and tied it to the bedpost, and another as she took the second arm.

"How does this feel?" she whispered, and, "Good, Madam," came the reply.

The spine flexed as she gave the ribbon a sharp tug, and a moan told Madam Malkin that she was very much on the right path. Smiling a tentatively satisfied smile, she turned to the ankles.

Then she opened the velvet-lined drawer that held her selection of small whips. Perhaps the flog would do nicely for a start, she thought. She took it out, cradled it in her hand for a while, and gently lowered the tips of its two dozen leather strips on Amelia’s back to see how they would be received. Muscles twitched here and there – they were big for a woman’s; Madam Malkin wouldn’t be surprised if a bit of weight-lifting had been involved in their making – and so Madam Malkin continued, up and down, in straight lines or in circles. Yes, the choice seemed to have been a good one. Breaths deepened and turned into soft moans, and at one point, a hand tried to grip the tightly-stretched sheets. Madam Malkin, however, was patient. She also didn’t hand out rewards easily, and so she took her own time, watching the body respond as she traced the spine, the hips, the outline of the shoulder blades, the soft flesh where other women had waists, the back of the thighs.

And respond it did, Amelia’s body. Her neck arched backwards as Madam Malkin gently let the leather lap against the shoulders; and there were moans and shivers and more than one jerk of the hip when she brushed the inside of the left thigh, then that of the right one, and then, after she’d found the white cotton to be in the way at last, the small, naked arse.

And only when Madam Malkin was sure, quite sure, that her new charge was ready for a little relief, did she take a step back, smile, and give the flog a well-measured swing.

 

 **~~1992~~**

A flick of the wand, and the apple core vanished.

It had been a while since Madam Malkin took her last client. And it wasn’t as if she missed it. She'd had her days. Timid, early days. Wild days of trial and sometimes error. Satisfying days, hurtful days, fulfilling days and, once, a dangerous day.

She didn't regret a single one of them, but she felt that it was time to let go.

She'd felt it for a while, really. There came a day when all the games had been played, all the heights had been reached. Stop when it's best, had always been her motto. Put away the needle when the dress is just right, don't ruin it by trying to embellish it further. Hold the whip when the man in your bed or the woman on your cross is afloat; don't spoil it for them by giving them more than they can take.

Let go while your memories still give you a thrill.

And they still gave her a thrill, her memories. She'd come in a collar, flown in the swing, felt the excitement of getting the whip and holding it, too. She’d given pleasure and experienced it, had been sought after for her skills and her sixth sense of her charges' needs. And she had produced a few successes.

Madam Malkin had always enjoyed the giving more than the taking. Oh, she liked the feeling of the whip or the sensation of ropes cutting into her flesh, especially when she got them as per her orders, from a young woman in a black dress and white apron, or a bare-chested man in a loincloth thin enough for her to see his pleasure. But what had always satisfied her most was to produce a success. To take a newcomer by the hand, make him overcome his shyness, teach her the pleasures of exploring her desires, of asking and of receiving, and sometimes even of being denied.

And she’d always preferred the ones who were honest with themselves. Nothing against good old Alastor, of course; the dear boy probably even believed himself that he only came to her to practise endurance and stamina under duress (and Merlin’s buttocks, that was _some_ stamina he had). But to Madam Malkin, the true successes had always been the ones who frankly acknowledged their needs and talked about them, who invited her along on their journey, gave themselves up to her, trusted her, and yes, even though she always told them it wasn’t about sex, came for her.

And some of them went even a little further.

 

 **~~1989~~**

The sheets were silver tonight, and Madam Malkin's corset was as black as the coffee on the tray she brought in as Amelia lay on the bed, applying ointment to her breasts from a small onyx jar.

They didn't meet often; Amelia didn't believe in giving in to every yearning. Just as relief was more gratifying after a little pain, so was the pleasure of a treatment more intense after she'd been wanting it for a while.

Plus, she didn't believe in taking Madam Malkin for granted. Her service was exquisite, her instinct infallible. It wasn’t for mass consumption.

Amelia ran a hand over the needles on the silver plate by the bed. Gently, she caressed the soft, colourful feathers on their ends, shivering lightly as the bulb of her finger touched their tips. There was little she liked better. She enjoyed Madam's whip, the heat of Madam's wand, sometimes Madam's hand coming down hard on her arse or her cheek for bad answers to a law quiz (and wasn’t it strange how she suddenly got even the most elementary questions wrong). Yet what she enjoyed most, and therefore most rarely, was the sensation of feathers tickling her before the iced tips of the needles, so thin one could hardly see them, pierced the soft flesh on her back, and sometimes her breasts.

"Thank you, Anna," she said as she took a small, porcelain cup from the tray. They'd long gone to using first names when they weren’t playing. It was as far as Madam Malkin would go, though. She'd put her lips on Amelia's on more than a few occasions, yet so far she’d never spoken a private word.

"What's on your mind?" Madam asked as she sat down on the bed.

Amelia shook her head, smiling as she took a sip of the unsweetened espresso. She'd relished the sharp of the needles and the sweet of Anna's voice, abandoned herself to the loss of space and time as the wings Anna had given her took her out of this plane of reality into her own Cartesian system, _I sense, therefore I am_ , had taken comfort in the soft breasts that supported her head when she came to, the whispers in her ear and the ointment on her back, and then, when all was over, the quiet conversation over coffee they’d taken up as a habit some time ago.

Yet she found that something was missing.

"It's not like you not to speak," Anna remarked, running a hand through Amelia's short, greying hair, and down her cheek.

Which was true. She'd always been upfront, rarely hesitated to ask for the whip, the needles, the corset that Madam Malkin would put on her on occasion, pulling it just a little tighter than was comfortable. She’d learned the pleasures of not asking, and even those of asking for things she wouldn't get, _especially_ when she asked for them, never minding the _no_ ; the question was its own reward.

It was different when one cared about a _yes_.

"Will you teach me, Anna?"

Madam Malkin set down her cup, her face suddenly serious. "Teach you what?" she asked, and looked as if she knew the answer.

"How it's done, Anna. How to make someone float."

"And how do you suggest I do that?" There was a smile in her face, too playful to be promising.

"By letting me do it to you," Amelia said and looked up, firmly, not blinking, right into Madam Malkin’s eyes. She hadn't studied interrogation techniques for nothing. "By letting me make you fly, Anna."

Madam Malkin gave a dry laugh as she refilled the cups from the espresso pot.

"Amelia, my dear," she murmured as she passed the coffee, and gently cupped the square chin in her hand. "What part of _pro-domme_ haven't you understood?"

~~~//~~~

Madam Malkin had seen that coming.

She was more than just a taker, Amelia. She was confident, knew what she wanted and said it, willingly abandoned herself to what she received and took it with no qualms. Yet Madam Malkin had seen the question in those eyes long before it was asked. And she had to admit, she was tempted.

Amelia Bones wasn’t her type. Anna Malkin liked her men manly and her women feminine, as adorable as the brisk voice and the furry brows above the sharp eyes undoubtedly were. That said, she was tempted. It had been a while since she’d last submitted herself to the skills of a partner. She was choosy, never had been one for just anyone with a whip and bit of cheap rubber gear. And she knew, had always known, that with a little instruction and probably even without, Amelia would do more than well.

Yet even if Madam Malkin had been known to bend her rules when it suited her, even if she had, on occasions, let her hand wrap itself around a cock, her fingers glide into a cunt, even if she'd stayed on afterwards and served coffee, there was one rule that would not fall.

No mixing of work and play. No subbing with a client. Current, former, or otherwise.

And thus she took Amelia into her arms, kissed the close-cropped head that rested against her breast, and put the empty espresso cups back on the tray.

"I think we're done here, my darling."

Amelia gave her a puzzled look. "Did I offend you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …"

Madam Malkin shook her head. "You didn’t," she said. "You never could. But I think it’s time for you to move on."

"I don’t understand …"

"I think you do," Anna said, and she knew that she was right. It was all a matter of balance. Anna remembered only too well the time when she’d first felt the desire to switch roles and her then partner hadn’t been ready for it. It wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t go away, would even spoil her desire to don the corset and swing the whip, until she’d finally found someone who would swing it for her. Which left exactly one solution.

"Find yourself a friend," Madam Malkin said, gathering the heavy silk of her skirt to get up from the bed. "Come here with her any time you want to. This room is always yours."

"But …"

Anna silenced her with a kiss on the lips. "You’ll do more than well,” she said. "But I have nothing more to teach you. You need someone to whom you can give, and who will give back to you." She ran a hand down Amelia’s cheek and smiled. "Time to pass on the pleasure, my love."

 

 **~~1992~~**

Madam Malkin let a last look trail around the room. Yes, this would do very nicely.

The light was set on dim, not the cheesy kind but the kind that gave off just a slightly surreal feel, and the temperature was just right. No chills of the wrong sort would disturb the occupants.

She looked at a small note in the pocket of her robe and flicked her wand. Panels two and four soared out of the wall and the ceiling and hid themselves neatly behind a curtain in the corner.

All was ready for Amelia and her friend.

Amelia had looked pensive that night when Anna sent her away, and Anna didn’t blame her. It was never easy to find a good partner as a witch, no matter if one was a timid beginner or a seasoned old hand. Especially not when one had standards. But, dutiful as ever, Amelia had nodded.

And indeed, not a year after she'd left, she came back.

Madam Malkin never asked people how they meet their partners, but Amelia had told her one night over a glass of old Ogden's. Funny how these things went. She and the other woman had known each other vaguely for years, as one knew each other in this corner of the world. Never liked one another much, what with mutually incompatible views on politics, procedures, and Albus Dumbledore, and at one time, mutually incompatible designs on Rolanda Hooch. Yet with Edgar in the Order and Amelia so fond of him, it was unavoidable that they kept running into each other. Equally unavoidable, perhaps, that one day, at Susan's eleventh birthday party to be exact, Amelia Bones and the bringer of the Hogwarts letter discovered their shared taste for good old firewhisky. And later, their shared dislike for domesticity. And yet a few glasses later, on a white-sheeted bed in a Wharton Street flat, a whole range of other shared sentiments.

They'd rented The Room once a month ever since.

And they had their rules, the two of them. For one, they took turns. Madam Malkin didn't know this officially, of course, but she could tell from the orders. Black silk and stainless steel in even months. Dark green or burgundy and silver in odd ones. One had developed a taste for wearing strap-ons under pencil skirts, and one for the wax of the candles in the old candelabrum. They never deviated from the rule; they were as correct about this as they were about paying her for the room, even though she told them repeatedly it wasn’t necessary.

And here, too, they took turns: the bottom always footed the bill.

"Anna, is that you?" Amelia's voice came over from the antechamber.

"Yes."

The door opened, and the half of Amelia Bones that wasn't concealed by the door of the wardrobe appeared, illuminated by the flickering light of the torch. Madam Malkin saw a white arm, a black, calf-length skirt, and a leg in a black, seamed stocking. The Head of Magical Law Enforcement sure hadn't become any less square over the years, but those calves, Anna admitted, were exquisite. Of course, the black ankle boots with the sturdy, two-inch heel did their bit, too.

Amelia stood front of the mirror, fastening the hooks of a jet-black corset.

"Would you lend me a hand ..." she asked.

"I beg ..."

"... Madam?"

"Gladly," Anna answered as she approached. She tugged sharply the small bridges of black lace that crisscrossed the white of Amelia's spine, from bottom to top, and smiled as she heard small gasps. This Madam still liked them tight, so tight she would get.

"Thank you, Anna," Amelia said as Anna Malkin's trained dressmaker hands tied the lace into a firm bow.

"My pleasure." There was a soft smile playing around Madam Malkin's lips. "Madam," she added with a deep curtsey.

She cupped Amelia's cheeks in her hands, placed a soft kiss on her forehead, and turned around to leave. The room, the friend, the skills were in capable hands, she knew. And somehow, this was the most satisfying gift that Amelia could give her.

Smiling, Madam Malkin closed the door and called it a day for good.

~~~***~~~


End file.
